


The Changing Tides

by Taffia



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Character Study, Dragon Age Character Alphabet, Ficlet Collection, Following Fate AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 26 ficlets and short stories centered upon those who have been and will be Arishok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Arishok

The grand causeway was absolutely filled with bodies. Qunari of all races were packed in between the buildings and even along rooftops, shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to ribcage, all ranks and castes were intermingled in front of the _viddathlok_ steps. The sun was hot and high overhead, beating down on thousands of heads all tilted up toward the highest tier of the pyramid. They had heard the rumor and later the announcement. The Arishok had been accused of treason—of betraying the Qun to the Tevinter filth—and had been killed by a hero returned from the dead.

That hero was not only due a crown of laurels. The entire  _antaam_ had declared him Arishok. Now, as all of Qunandar watched and waited in anticipation, the Ariqun and Arigena stood on the steps of the  _viddathlok_ , also turned and looking upward, waiting for the new leader of the Qunari military to emerge.

Marian waited with the rest of them. Isabela and Asari stood with her. Varric and Fenris were not far off. They were positioned on a platform near the Arigena with other witnesses of the duel and those that could speak for Taarbas' good character. It was a shockingly large group, filling both sides of that tier on either side of the stairway. Soldiers that had served under him in Seheron and Kirkwall and other places.  _Qunra_ and venerable, retired warriors that had trained him, educated him,  _tamassran_ that had raised him. Some of them bore pale yellow ribbons, tied to their arms or in their hair or otherwise displayed. Marian had asked what it meant, for she had been given one, too. It was a symbol, Asari had told her, of one forced to bear shame they didn't deserve.

She looked down the sloping granite to the causeway. The  _antaam_ headed up the massive crowd. Ranks upon ranks of Qunari warriors in full battle dress stood at attention. Behind them was everyone else, stretching away so far that it was impossible that most could even see the specks of people on the  _viddathlok_ steps let alone hear anything that was said. That wasn't the point, however. An important ceremony as this was not missed by anyone. The feasting that would come after was guaranteed. 

A soldier in the ranks let loose a shout, beating his sword rhythmically upon his shield. Others quickly followed suit, sounding the same cadence with their weapons and voices. “ _Ataash! Ataash!_ ” Glory. Glory was his that was worthy to lead them. Gazes flew upward to the top of the steps, to the pillared chamber at the pyramid's peak. Taarbas stood there, fitted in the red leather pauldrons, the black leggings and boots, the blue leather chaps. His horns were ringed in bronze. His ears cuffed in the same gleaming metal. His shoulders were squared, his arms at his sides. He looked every inch the warrior he was born to be. But he was a warrior still without a weapon.

He descended the steps at a reserved pace, his eyes first taking in the expansive crowd. He might have been gaping. Marian couldn't tell from this distance. He lowered his face quickly, focusing on where he was going, on the two women waiting for him—the Ariqun with a crown of laurels and the Arigena with a long parcel of plain cloth balanced in her arms. As soon as he reached the platform with the others, he fell to his knees, his hands touching the sun-warmed stone as he bowed to touch his forehead to the ground between them. The Amell shield was still strapped to his back. Silence immediately fell over the crowd.

_Abandon struggle and submit to the will of the Qun_ .

“Rise, Qunari.” The voice of the Ariqun was firm to carry as far as it could. Taarbas did as he was commanded, and the laurels were placed upon his brow between his horns. “Ours is the relentless tide in the changeless sea, but even we know troubled waters. Even in exile, your will was that of the Qun. You upheld its undeniable truths even as one of our brothers betrayed them. For your service, Qunari, you have been found worthy of Sataareth, the soul of he who razed the foreign city of Kirkwall.”

The Ariqun gestured, and Taarbas turned his attention over to the Arigena, the small kossith woman bowing her head in respect as she held her bundle up to him. With an almost gentle reverence, Taarbas pushed back the cloth to reveal the shining blade, newly polished and sharpened. He grasped it by the hilt and raised it above his head and out over the crowd.

“Victory in the Qun!” he bellowed.

_Defend the Qun in the face of adversity_ .

The Arigena turned a little and motioned for Marian and Asari to step forward. Also Isabela and the others. The pirate looked more than a little afraid. It was bad enough that she was up here in front of thousands...maybe millions...and that debacle with the Tome of Koslun still haunted her in the back of her mind. Marian understood. To be double-crossed so many times was to lose all trust. But the Champion of Kirkwall held out her hand for Isabela to take. She did, and they stepped forward together, each giving strength to the other.

“But no Qunari should feel he need act alone.” It was the Arigena's turn to speak. “It is through the bonds of our kinship in the Qun that we are strongest. It is our shared wisdom, our shared sense of justice, our shared understanding that we are not only able to endure but persevere. A capable leader knows to turn to his brothers and sisters for guidance.” She nodded to another Qunari standing close by, a small elven woman who looked to be barely out of childhood. She wore the white robes of a _viddathari_ but the lavender drape of the Arigena's office. She held several wreaths of sweet-smelling white flowers. Marian recognized them. Andraste's Grace. An appropriate yet ironic thing to be crowned with as each companion bowed in turn to receive their honors.

_Embrace all Qunari as one's brothers and sisters in the Qun, regardless of race or origin._

“These same brothers and sisters that so aided this worthy Qunari began this journey as the unenlightened,” the Arigena went on after the roar of cheering died down. “From the filth of corruption they crawled, aiding one that to them was a stranger. Through their trials, they have found and embraced their true purpose. Welcome them, brothers and sisters. Welcome them not only as worthy _viddathari_ but as Qunoran. Their efforts should be an example to others—even those of us born into the Qun.”

The sound that came next was deafening. Arms pumped in the air and hands waved. Makeshift banners flew as people held sashes and other bits of cloth aloft, speckling the sea of bodies with even more color. Marian could hardly breathe. This was the first time in years... _years_ ...that she felt like she'd actually done the right thing, made all the right choices, and the response was nothing but positive. This was not the desperation of Ferelden. Neither was it the arm-twisting of Kirkwall. This was...something so wonderfully unfamiliar to her she could do nothing but stare and smile dumbly.

_Spread knowledge of the Qun to those ignorant of its teachings_ .

When the hush came again, the Ariqun's voice rang out once more. “And, thus, it is with beating hearts that we bestow this Qunari with the rank and title of Arishok, that he might lead our armies to victory, uphold our values in the face of adversity, and represent the will of the Qun in foreign lands. Aid him, brothers and sisters. It is with one Soul we feel, one Mind we understand, and one Body we act. One cannot function without the other—and we must never forget this. This, above all. Know your purpose. Perform your duty. Submit to the will of the Qun!”

_Excel in your purpose that you might best serve all Qunari_ .

The thunder of voices and clashing weapons and clapping hands shook the very ground. Marian couldn't hear herself think. Asari was hugging each of them in turn, bouncing excitedly down the line and saying  _something_ but whatever it was was drowned out. Isabela, too, made a comment that never made it to Marian's ears. They were eventually all shuffled inside, back into the cool interior of the  _viddathlok_ , blinking as their eyes adjusted to the light. The din died down quickly.

Varric was at Marian's side in an instant.

“So. Hawke.” His voice was low, conspiratorial.

She didn't respond verbally, merely tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at him. She was still significantly overwhelmed by the whole experience that just happened.

“Refugee, Mercenary, Templar, Champion, Viscount...and now Kingmaker? That's quite the resume you're racking up.”

“I promise I won't let it go to my head,” Marian replied with a small smirk. “But an Arishok isn't a king, you know.”

“I know that...and _you_ know that. But the general readership audience could care less about semantics.”


	2. B is for Beresaad

_What is the Blight_?

The Arishok inhaled deeply the breeze that came to him from the sea.  It was dusk in Par Vollen, and the city of Qunandar was slowly putting itself to rest.  It was the easy sleep of the unenlightened…those who had not yet heard the stirring words of the laborers at the docks, the news Kithshok brought that very afternoon to the Arishok’s ears alone.

There was some pestilence, some disease or plague, in a land known as “Ferelden”.  The Qunari had never properly been to this place, only dealt with its neighbors, but the legends ran that it was governed by massive hounds and other wild beasts.  Humans were a guaranteed presence, as were elves, he was told.  That being the case, it was his duty to find out the truth of this matter.

But it could not be him.  The Tome of Koslun had been found.  It was near.  There was the tantalizing hope of getting it back, as was also his duty.  And a greater one.

He would have to send someone else.  It must be one of the highest virtue, one of courage and temperance, one wise and with a good sense of justice.  It must be one who had earned his honors and would continue to do so.

The Arishok turned from the open window of his chamber and nodded a single time to Kithshok, his loyal advisor, and uttered one word.  Kithshok gave a bow of the head and took his leave.

Some time later, another entered, one who had been blessed without horns but whose bearing matched any of the greatest warriors in the _antaam_.

“I must give you a new duty, Sten,” the Arishok rumbled, his attention once more focused out the window and across the sea to the south.  “What is the Blight?”

The other kossith’s eyes narrowed in confusion.  “I do not understand, Arishok.”

The head of curling black horns turned and regarded the subordinate soldier with the patient gaze of a father.  “It is what we must discover, Qunari, for the good of us all.  It threatens this…Ferelden…but other nations appear to view it with undeniable dread.  If it shakes the foundations of Tevinter, we must know of it.  Our situation is too precarious to lose control, now.”

Sten nodded.  “What would you have me do, Arishok?”

“Assemble your _beresaad_.  I trust you to know who is worthy…but only take a few.  A small number, nothing to be viewed as a threat by these _bas_.  We do not yet know them.”

“My brothers have served me well thus far.  They shall continue to do so even in the face of this…Blight.”

The Arishok nodded, a shallow, small thing but more than enough.  Sten nodded in return and promptly left to perform his task.  It would have daunted any other.  But the Arishok knew the soldiers in his _antaam_ as any good _basra_ father would know his sons.

They would discover this Blight, this dangerous thing.  And they would persevere.


	3. C is for Courage

The waves were high as they neared the shore, the sky an ashen gray and the roll of thunder not far off. The Antivan craft was not far ahead of them, its sails rising and falling with the swell as it plunged forward toward the statues known in these _basra_ lands as the Twins.

“Hold your bearings!” Kithshok shouted over the howling wind. “The thief will not escape us so long as we stay true to our course!”

“So you say, brother!” a call answered back. Vashkata swung down from this place in the rigging, landing lightly beside his comrade on the drenched wood of the deck. The two had fought many battles together, lived in the barracks together, played as boys together. There was a kindred link between them that the Arishok had noticed straight away and made sure to always keep them together no matter the task or danger. _Kadan-fe_ , such a rare and precious thing even among Qunari.

Kithshok smirked even as torrents of rain water drenched him. “You doubt me?”

Vashkata smiled back, almost grimly as he took in the summer storm upon unfamiliar waters. “Never, my brother. Though, I do admit it is hard to maintain a true course when the ocean is set against us. Look there!” He pointed, white foam spouting into the air as waves crashed into the reefs just off the Wounded Coast. “We should use the cannons—hole the _vashedan_ ship. It won’t sink it but let us gain. The Tome of Koslun will be ours before we’re too close to the shore, and then we can be gone!”

The other shook his head, platinum hair soaking and plastered to his silver skin, sinewed hand grasping at rigging to keep his footing. “The Arishok wants the thief alive. We cannot risk it.”

Vashkata’s expression darkened with a scowl, but he nodded his understanding. Gritting his teeth, he carefully moved forward, positioning himself to have the best possible view of their quarry even through the storm.

Lightning flashed. The thunder was deafening. Waves cut through the air and flailed down upon them, stinging with their weight and power as they crashed upon the deck and the soldiers there, threatening to wash them all away like sand in the tide. There was the muffled shout as one or another was washed overboard, but Vashkata held on, clinging to the wooden railing with the red fever of anticipation in his eyes.

They were gaining.

Another tremendous wave. A crack. The mainmast broke in half and toppled into the sea with sail and rigging and men. Caught in the sweep of motion was Kithshok, Vashkata catching sight of his form caught in the tangle of rope as he was swept into the sea.

“ _Brother_!”

His cry barely reached his own ears through the roar of the sea and storm. The ship in shambles, breaking apart more and more as the waves tore it apart, Vashkata did not give Fate a chance to do what it wanted with him. Inhaling a deep breath, he dove headlong into the choppy gray-green and swam. He swam against the tug of the undertow, against the strong current of unknowing. He swam until his limbs burned and grew tired and heavy. And still he swam. He caught a glimpse of the black wood of the masthead, the sodden clod of sailcloth clinging to it. Somewhere…somewhere nearby had to be Kithshok.

“Brother!”

Vashkata’s voice broke as he called out over the swell, his arms and legs viciously treading water to keep his head above the surface. There was no sign of curling horn, of pale hair, no answer carried back on the blustering wind. Inhaling again, he sank below the violent waves, forcing his eyes open to search about in the salty gloom. It burned, like the sun’s fire it burned, but still he looked. There were so many shapes, forms, limp shadows drifting down into the murky depths.

A glint. The faint glow of bronze. Vashkata kicked and dived down, reaching out a hand in a frantic stretch until his fingers curled around the flesh of a wrist. He forced his way upward, defying the very will of the ocean to get both himself and his brother to safety. Breaking the surface could not have happened soon enough. He burst from the water with a loud gasp for breath, the thunder and lightning and rain relentless in their onslaught. He tugged Kithshok above water, the other Qunari seeming to barely hold on to consciousness.

The ship barely existed, and it was certainly no longer a ship. Wreckage cut through the water in dangerous shards, but Vashkata found a large piece of planking still held together by a crossbeam of what once had been a deck. He shoved Kithshok upon it before grasping on himself, doing what he could to guide them through the jagged, unforgiving reefs.

“Rest, brother,” he said hoarsely, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Rest, now. The sea will carry us to shore. As…as it is written…’He who cannot walk must be carried. But he who must be carried still will find his way home.’” He looked over, the silver-violet of his eyes shining with tears and worry. “I will carry you home, my brother. Even if I must die upon the final step.”


	4. D is for Dathrasi

“Are you sure about this? I mean…are you _really_ sure?” Varric’s apprehension was palpable as they watched Isabela be handed the reins to one of the transport dragons, a creature now being trained to help in the fight against darkspawn.

The Arishok merely looked on, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed as he pondered over not just this situation but what it would take to outfit the Vashoth Stenok. Marian had apparently suggested to the Triumvirate some time earlier that the blighted creatures had an undeniable fear and fascination for the massive reptiles, and that the fire of a dragon’s breath was more devastating to them than the edge of any blade. With the _antaam_ so diminished, he felt there was no recourse but to trust her judgment and have faith that the false beliefs of the magister lords still flowed in those putrid veins. Even the Qunari had heard the legends and weren’t in the least surprised that the _saarebas_ of their enemy could have fallen so low.

“Here we go!” He could hear Marian’s breath catch. There was excitement glittering in her eyes as she watched Isabela climb up into the molded saddle and situate herself. There was a moment’s hesitation as the dragon appeared to want to object, but its kossith handler reached out to touch its scaly neck, whispering a few words of comfort. It jerked at its strange bridle and shifted beneath the unfamiliar weight of a human but behaved.

Isabela gave a verbal command, and the dragon shrieked. Moments later, it spread its great leathery wings and beat them to rise into the air. The pirate’s bronze face looked worried at first, but once the creature was completely airborne and swooping around to catch an updraft, a whooping of sheer delight carried to those still on the ground. They followed her flight pattern, running along the grassy field below as she learned to handle the creature above.

The Arishok did not grow concerned until he saw the low stone wall of a dathrasi pasture. Isabela was supposed to conduct her mount toward the hay bales stationed like soldiers to the east. Instead, she was heading due north, and over the panting breath and racing steps of himself and his fellows, he was certain that he heard emphatic epithets in Trade meshed with Rivaini. When, “ _Shaltam, atashi_ , bugger you all!” rang out, he knew there was trouble.

The dragon made an upward spin. Then, its wings flared and it plummeted in a dive that left Isabela screaming and Marian striding out and bounding over the wall. The Arishok was not far behind, and he had picked Varric up by the collar to toss him over the stone barrier. The dwarf did not object. He didn’t have the time or breath to object.

All around them, the dathrasi were squealing, herding together and beginning to stampede away in the direction they knew the gates to be. The dragon came lower, claws extended, maw open wide. There was the hint of a ball of flame forming between its jaws as it dived. Isabela yanked on the reins, forcing the beast’s head to the side in a wail of pain, but it did not fail in snatching up one of the plump livestock and soaring back into the air with it.

Fire did come eventually. Once the flight had evened out again and the pirate’s shrieks had returned to agitated curses, a burst of flame came forth and seared the poor creature in the dragon’s grasp before it ripped at the flesh with its teeth. The three on the ground had long since come to a halt, hands on knees and gasping for air.

“Just…a note for the future,” Varric rasped to the Arishok. “Don’t go into battle with a hungry dragon.”


	5. E is for Eva

He watched the vast swath of forest burn. The battle had been a fierce one, the Tevinter _saarebas_ relentless in their push forward. They had thrown their magic. The Qunari had responded with _gaatlok_. The result was victory. The aftermath was a wasted resource.

The Arishok kept an eye on the men busily digging a trench between their front lines and the spreading fire. One battle. One day. But so long as there were Tevinter _bas_ here, the fighting would be endless. He hoped the burning forest would smoke them out. In that way, at least, the loss of valuable hardwood would not have been completely senseless.

When he was certain adequate preparations had been made, he stepped away from his men and their trench and ducked into the tent that served as his sleeping quarters. It was not his alone. Three others shared it with him, Kithshok and two Sten, his most adept tacticians. They were already gathered about an open patch of sandy ground, scratching out strategies for the dawn when the flames died down and smoke mostly cleared. Even that they could use, the black plumes that only got thicker when things began to smoulder.

“We use the fire to our advantage,” Kithshok was saying, marking the front lines with the scrape of a dagger blade. “Keep it as a wall between our _saarebas_ and the front, use the smoke to cloak the _karashok_ and _vashkata._ We have the upper ground. They must come to us if they expect to succeed.”

“What of the river?” a Sten asked, tracing a curving line along the side of their crude map. “The have skiffs—”

“Had skiffs,” the Arishok put in, hanging Sataareth on a rack while he sat on the edge of his cot to shrug out of his armor for the night. “Saying that they were obliterated is putting it…lightly.”

“The river is still a liability,” Kithshok added with a nod. “It was made clear that the Fog Warriors are not with us in this fight. That does not mean they have abandoned Tevinter.” He etched out a few hash marks by the gentle curve. “We keep one _karataam_ back to monitor the shoreline. The river is wide and runs deep. We cannot risk such an opening.”

“And the front? Once the stealth groups have made their move?”

The Arishok’s smile was tight, but it was genuine. “They will signal with fire.” His silver eyes flashed around to meet each of theirs. “And we will show these _bas_ what it means to face demons.”

They waited until that hour before dawn when the landscape and sky blurred together completely. All that let them know where the ground truly was were the glowing orange pools filtered through scorched branches and desiccated leaves. It was impossible to see the Tevinter front lines, but they didn’t need to. The _karashok_ and _vashkata_ were already on the move, snaking through the smoking ruin of the forest in search of _basra_ prey. Swift and silent, they did their part. It was not that long a wait before a small flare of light went shooting into the sky, only to explode into crackling, colored flame a moment later.

The Arishok raised his sword aloft, the tempered steel catching what light there was in an answering flash.

“ _Eva!_ ” he shouted at the top of his voice, a chorus of deep voices answering a rhythmic chant as cannons sounded off, hurling their smoking bounty down the hillside and into the blackened forest below.

Fiery explosions were everywhere as thunder shook the earth below and heavens above. Those birds that had been foolish enough to roost nearby were startled into the air, shrieking and squawking as they fled. Another round was loosed. The valley was carpeted in flame. Qunari _saarebas_ hurled their deadly magics into the fray before the signal was given for the warriors to finally charge. They whooped with excitement and bloodlust as they charged into hell.

The Arishok smiled. It would be another easy victory.


	6. F is for Future

Vashkata sat at the edge of the pier, his feet dangling over the murky water of the harbor. It stank here, reeking of _basra_ and old fish. There was a half-empty bottle of Antivan brandy in his hands. The other half already warmed his stomach and tingled numbly through every limb. It was a bad habit. But it kept him sane.

They had been two years in Kirkwall, confined to wretched quarters not fit for _basra_ habitation let alone Qunari. Two years and they were no closer to finding the relic they were honor-bound to secure and return to Par Vollen. Well…the Arishok was honor-bound. The rest of them were here by proxy. That’s how he’d come to understand it anyway.

He tilted back the bottle and practically gulped at the acrid liquid, hoping to eventually numb all his senses if for only a few minutes. Two years. No progress. The Arishok said to be patient. The Arishok said to wait.

“I don’t suppose you have your wits about you.”

Under normal circumstances, Vashkata would have sensed an approaching cat long before it could rub against his leg. As it was, he’d no idea there was even a kossith beside him until he spoke, and the surprise nearly dropped him into the water.

“Aqunan! Ah, brother, come and share a drink with me!” He held out the bottle, brandy sloshing hollowly inside.

“Kithshok,” the other corrected firmly, taking the bottle and tossing it as far out into the harbor as he could. “Has the poison addled you so far you think us children again?”

“You were aptly named you know,” Vashkata went on, his eyes almost sad. It was hard to know if it were a reaction to memory or the glittering bottle of wasted brandy bobbing on the tide. “As constant as the sea.”

“In this particular moment, the same cannot be said for you.” Kithshok leveled a look at his brother.  “A quick-witted Tenethari, I do not see.”

Vashkata snorted, a smile coming to his face at last. He reached up and clamped a hand to Kithshok’s shoulder.  “Too true, too true.” But his tone immediately sobered. “It is this…place. The longer we remain, the duller my senses become.”

“And you know why we stay.”

“We stay for the future of the _antaam_ , for the future of all Qunari.” His eyes narrowed a little. “We stay for a book…one that I’m certain has been copied in whole or in part dozens of times by thousands of _imekari_.”

Kithshok stiffened. “You say that as if its purpose was not something—”

“Don’t lecture me like an old _tamassran_.” Vashkata went to reach for a brandy bottle that was no longer there.  He sighed. “I merely worry that all this waiting is…dangerous.  We should have cleansed this place when we arrived. The taint is palpable.”

“You drank a good bit of it voluntarily just now.” The tone was serious but eyes twinkled with no small bit of mirth. “Peace, brother.” Kithshok got to his feet and dusted himself off. “I need to return to my post, but you should know that there is nothing to worry about. Victory is in the Qun.”

Vashkata nodded shallowly and watched the other kossith’s retreating form even long after he vanished into the crowd of dockhands. _But for how much longer, brother_ , he wondered to himself. _For how much longer_?


	7. G is for Gena

“And that's exactly what I mean,” Isabela was pointing out emphatically. “I've learned how to sew, to play this thing called a _suukar_ , to paint pretty calligraphy, but in the weeks we've been here, Qunra has yet to let me pick up a blade! How am I to do my duty without at least a dagger?” She was pacing a little in the garden, arms flailing in heated gesticulation.

The Arishok smiled and then laughed, full and hearty, from where he sat in front of a wall of Fereldan roses. The blooms were full and a fiery red, and the spicy scent had been enough to help him forget the weight of everything that they were all currently dealing with. Marian sat nearby beside an Asari who had yet to break out from beneath a cloud of gloom. And Varric was trying. He was trying very hard by reading snatches from a story he was apparently working on, inserting such things as, “Goldie, do you remember what we wanted to have happen there? That joke you told me, the one you wouldn't stop laughing long enough to tell me.”

It was sobering to see. No one—not even other  _tamassrans—_ had ever tried to correct Varric when he insisted on calling Asari “Goldie”. Not after he told them that her personality shone with the light of the sun just as her skin reflected its color. For a people so intent on calling people by what they  _were_ rather than using an arbitrary naming system like other cultures, they absolutely could not argue. And for that sunlight overshadowed made the Arishok feel partly responsible for the despair. He had pushed her harder to find a cure for the Blight disease, shortened her timeline, unintentionally limited her resources. She had a serviceable result, but it was not her ideal.

“You are missing the point,” Fenris was saying in retort to Isabela's tirade. “They are teaching you to exercise control, forcing you to practice and fine-tune your dexterity. And you were already one of the best when you came here. If you do as they tell you, I can promise you'll be the best Vashkata the Qunari have ever known.”

“Well, aren't you sweet,” Isabela replied with a smile, reaching out to pinch his cheek. He lifted an eyebrow at her but didn't flinch.

Any further attempt at discussion was lost in a sudden explosion of twittering. The sound of women giggling carried to them from the other side of the garden wall, and it was moments later that several  _tamassrans_ turned in through the archway. They fell silent, yet still all smiles, when they saw the Arishok. Isabela also went mute mid-sentence, staring with curiosity at the half a dozen kossith women blocking the garden path. All the Kirkwallers had taken notice, their eyes moving from the  _tamassrans_ to the Arishok and back again. Only Asari seemed not to notice.

“Arishok,” a Tamassran said boldly, clearing her throat and stepping forward, “we have come to record your choice for the Festival.”

The Arishok blinked at her, stunned and uncomprehending.

“Your choice, Arishok,” the woman pressed as she reached for a waxy faced tablet and stylus hanging from her belt. “Who have you chosen or what traits should we seek out on your behalf?”

He still could not speak. His head whipped around to Marian as if she could possibly be a source of guidance, but her confusion was greater than his. Vastly so. He knew what these women were here for, and providing them an answer would have been absolutely no issue only a few years ago. But now? As the sea was changeless, so was his opinion of Marian. Even the bees that flitted from flower to flower had a preference. They knew which would make the best honey and would return to them time and again for their bounty. The  _tamassrans_ did not operate so, preferring to force the bees to different flowers each and every time. But it was not his place to argue with their wisdom.

“Arishok?”

“The Arishok will only have one born into the _gena_.” It was Asari who spoke, her voice firm and assured and allowing no argument. “Born into it but not of it, for she exceeded the expectations of birth and accomplished much for herself and all the people. Her bloodline does not carry the purity of generations but still holds much merit where it matters most. And she must not have been touched by anyone before, she always overlooked and deemed unworthy to bear children for the Qun.”

Tamassran stared, her mouth agape as she attempted to process not only what she'd heard but that an  _asari_ dared to speak on behalf of the Arishok in his very presence. She looked to the leader of the  _antaam_ to verify that that was, indeed, his request. He nodded shallowly in return, his gaze cast to the alabaster paving stones and brow furrowed. The traits were noted. The women whispered between themselves for a brief moment. Then, they left, splitting off into pairs as if to find this woman post-haste.

The Arishok heaved a breath when their voices faded off into the distance. His pulse thundered. If Asari hadn't spoken, his response would have been one word, a name meaningless to them, and he could not expose that part of his heart. Not ever. For both their sakes.

“Goldie?” Varric asked after a time, his voice cracking with uncertainty, “what did you just do?”

Asari's eyes were on the Arishok, emotionless but intense nonetheless. “I bought time, as you would say,” she replied simply. “But  _tamassrans_ are a relentless lot. I recommend meeting with the Ariqun before you are overwhelmed, Arishok. Abstention is not a choice in this matter. Not for you.”

He took another breath and nodded. Minutes of silence passed, his friends all seeming to wait on his ultimate response. There was a gentle buzzing behind him, and he turned to see a honey bee working its way through silken petals to find the rich pollen at the center of a rose. A Fereldan rose. A  _basra_ rose. Yet favorable over all the blooms native to Par Vollen. As he watched the tireless insect go about its work, he realized that Asari had done more than buy time. She had referenced what was already in his heart without betraying him. The Ariqun would know that request before he even reached her...but it would smooth over what he actually needed to say.

Getting to his feet, he turned one last time to Asari. “Of the  _gena_ ? But no longer?”

Asari shrugged. “I sent them on what they'll think is an impossible chase. The records for the  _gena_ are vast.” And, just then, she gave him the first smile in what seemed like an age. “But you know what you need more than I.” She looked up at him, and her smile broadened, adding light to her tired eyes.

“Go, Arishok. You know your duty.”


	8. H is for Hissra

The _bas_ wouldn’t stop coming.

For days, they had held the crossroads at the mountain pass, Fog Warriors pelting them with arrows from the north, what passed for Tevene warriors from the south and west. Whoever won and held this village, nameless and primitive despite its tactical significance, gained control of the entire eastern half of Seheron. They were already predominantly Qunlands. This victory would simply seal it.

But it would be hard won.

 _A victory all the sweeter_ , the Arishok thought to himself as he carved is way through the fray. Sataareth in hand, he rallied what soldiers he could to him. He would not suffer the enemy any longer than need be. A shield wall was formed, and they shoved their way deeper behind enemy lines. He felt the sticky warmth of blood across his face as _basra_ fell to his axe. Broad, white teeth gleamed in the fire of the setting sun. Explosions of _gaatlok_ sprayed clods of earth and gore into the air ahead of him. Only here in war was destruction such a pleasing force to behold.

He was born for this.

The forces should have pulled back at dusk. It was unwise to fight when you were as likely to hit ally as enemy, but fires both magical and mundane lit the field with the rage of a thousand suns. Sweat cut paths through the blood on his skin. Muscles burned from the continued effort, his body giving in to weariness even as his mind would not. He was Qunari. There was no room for weakness.

His back pressed up against that of another. Kithshok, his right hand. The younger kossith used both sword and shield as weapons, bludgeoning a foe to one side while removing the arm of another. In a fluid motion, that shield came up to block burning arrows from the Fog Warriors before arcing out to have one of its four corners bite into the pallid flesh of a Nevarran mercenary. The Arishok smiled grimly as he lashed out at his own opponents. Sword and axe swung in tandem to clear the rest of the area. It afforded them a space to breathe.

“Vashkata has the Fog Warriors pinned,” Kithshok panted, his sharp eyes darting about even as he addressed his commander. It was a fool who let himself be caught unawares. “What they fling at us is little more than a dying breath. Tevinter is pulling back into the forest barrier. They have not sounded retreat.”

The Arishok nodded. “Then they hope to catch us in a ruse. Have our men fall back to the village. We will force these _bas_ to fight where we can see them.”

Kithshok gave a salute and barked orders to his _karataam_ and any others within earshot. He shouted loudly enough for the enemy to hear them. The Arishok did likewise, moving back through the throng of still-fighting bodies until he was well within the confines of the low buildings and ruined fencing. A shield wall was erected as a barrier. The arrows eventually stopped raining down. When Vashkata and the others returned, the besieged occupants of the village began to creep out from under cover, curious and hoping that the battle was over and that their captors would be merciful.

The officers gathered about the mud of the town square, quickly and crudely drawing out the current battle formations. The Fog Warriors were no longer a threat, their main force routed and any stragglers killed or captured. The Tevene were spread thin along their front line. The trees masked them in the cloak of night, but the _ashaad_ had paid close attention.

“They still have _saarebas_ ,” Vashkata reported, marking places on their makeshift map by throwing blood-soaked stones to the sodden ground. “Here to the southwest. They hide in a grove chanting their vile nonsense.” He spat off to the side in contempt. “We kill them, we win the field.”

“They are protected by living rock,” Arvaraad added, holding out a control rod for the Arishok to inspect. “We felled one of the giants, but there are a handful more. Our cannons run low on ammunition, and swords and spears do little. Not unless we can overwhelm them.”

There was silence as they waited for the Arishok to respond, the elder kossith’s great head and horns silhouetted against flame and smoke and deep, black sky. He turned the control rod over in his hands. It was a heavy metal plated in gold and laden with stones the _basra_ considered precious. His brow lifted as he considered such a concept, the foolish decadence showing no sign of practicality. Yet this thing was known to bring stone to life and control it with minimal effort. Magic. Madness.

Kithshok cleared his throat. “Arishok? What do you propose?”

“ _Hissra_ , my son,” the Qunari war leader replied almost absently, passing the control rod back to Arvaraad. “They hope to deceive us with retreat and cloak themselves in the corruption of their _saarebas_. They hope we will fight these moving mountains, requiring so many of our number to fell that they would undoubtedly flank us. But the mind is superior to magic.” He looked from his officers and into the distance, eyes narrowing as if counting the hidden figures crouched beneath the trees. “ _Hissra_. And have faith. For, I assure you, it is we that shall deceive _them_.”


End file.
